


Margins of His Thoughts

by Alexander_Writes



Series: Dead Men Fics [3]
Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Conversation, Erskine POV, First war against Mevolent, Gen, Ghastly is trying, Ghastly knits on a cliff, Grief, Hopeless is dead, Set in Wales, Sheep watch and judge, The worm's head - Rossili, Very early 20th century, canon!Ravel, lying, references to past violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24537856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Writes/pseuds/Alexander_Writes
Summary: “When Skulduggery died I almost deserted,” Ghastly said.Worm's Head, Rossili. Wales, 1902. Ghastly and Erskine have a conversation on a cliff. Erskine isn't entirely honest.
Relationships: Erskine Ravel & Ghastly Bespoke
Series: Dead Men Fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672435
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18





	Margins of His Thoughts

“What am I supposed to do? Laugh it off?”

The cliffs sloped downwards, disjointed and uneasy. If one was particularly adventurous or foolhardy, it was possible to climb down to the sand and the rocks on the same level of the sea, and when the tide was down one could cross over to the arching rock formation that curved like a little island not too far away. The grass was particularly plush, and Erskine was sitting on the cliff’s edge, looking out at the horizon. Ghastly sat beside him. The bald man was knitting a brown scarf, legs crossed; were he not in armour he could be mistaken for a civilian. Erskine had his knees drawn to his chest, one hand braceleted around his right wrist. Clouds all different greys were dispersed up above, but no rain threatened. A little way up along the headland was a flock of sheep, dull bundles of displeasure, which glared at the two men or slept silently. Perhaps they had appropriated the animals’ favourite spot on this deceitful headland.

“No,” Ghastly said, starting a new line. “Why? Does that help you?”

Erskine shook his head.

Larrikin and Saracen were climbing the dark rocky outcrops of the worm’s head; that extension of the headland that became an island with the high tide. Neither of them were elementals, and so could potentially be cut off if the water rose swiftly. They didn’t seem to care.

The other Dead Men were in Rossili, that little Welsh town above the bay and the soft sand beach. Rumour was that Serpine had finally left the clammy sanctuary provided by the Necromancers in America, and was causing havoc in the peaceful mortal villages down this coastline. Too many Irishmen would prove suspicious, and so the four of them were on the outskirts. Dexter was the most charming of them all, and so he was the obvious choice of person to go searching for information. Erskine was out of the running in that particular competition, at least for the moment. He had spent the last months snapping at people in his way, scowling at strangers, and once, rather mortifyingly, he had burst into silent tears in front of a civilian. He was not at his most capable, and did not much resent being left to look at clouds and sheep instead of doing intelligence work. Dexter, Anton and Skulduggery were more than able to handle the task at hand.

“When Skulduggery died I almost deserted,” Ghastly said.

Erskine turned his head. Ghastly was halfway through the line he was knitting, but he dropped a stitch and had to carefully reinstall it on the needle. His eyes were on the ground, and the sun hit his scars so that his face lined with shadows. Erskine’s chest felt suddenly crammed; not simply with sorrow, but by all the secrets that lined the margins of his thoughts. Hopeless would have kept Erskine’s confidences, perhaps. Ghastly had never asked. A warm breeze lifted off from the rolling waves, and Erskine closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them Ghastly was still there, his words solid between them.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I did. Do you remember that week when I was on a secret mission for Corrival in 1708? It was in winter in Scotland, and it was so cold we almost froze. We were stationed in Edinburgh. ”

“I remember.”

“There was no mission. That was a lie to justify my disappearance. I couldn’t bear it anymore, so I just walked off into the snow, out of the town. Hopeless chased after me. By the time they had caught up their hands were almost dead from the cold. They hadn’t worn gloves, not even an overcoat.”

Erskine flinched, and looked down towards the worm’s head again. Saracen, more a movement than a discernible figure, waved up at them. Larrikin, a blur with red hair, took advantage of his distraction to tackle him. Erskine imagined the two were laughing at each other madly, though no sound could carry that far.

“So Hopeless convinced you to come back?” Erskine managed, when the lump in his throat had somewhat lessened. There was a loose thread on Erskine’s sleeve. He twisted it between his fingers, pulled at it. Ghastly had made this shirt for his birthday, years ago.

“No. Of course not,” Ghastly said. “They just slowed me down. I had to get them to a warm hearth, find them a physician. I don’t think Hopeless wanted to bring me back to the fight; I think they were just afraid of what I’d do alone in a foreign land in the worst of winter. I told them they could come with me when they were well, if they wished, but that I wasn’t going back.”

Erskine swallowed, and dragged his eyes to Ghastly’s hands as he knitted. He could imagine Hopeless; hunched, shaking from the cold, eyes the same colour as those clouds above him now. They always seemed smaller when they were worried for their friends.

“I remember that week when you two went missing. You came back with a cake,” Erskine said. “But you didn’t tell me you’d run away.”

“I was ashamed,” Ghastly said. “I had realised I needed to keep fighting, and was embarrassed by my weakness.”

“He was your closest friend,” Erskine said sharply, then blinked. “He _is_ your closest friend. I would have understood. You could have told me.”

“I am now,” Ghastly said firmly, meeting Erskine’s gaze.

“Why?”

“Because you need to hear this.”

“What? No, not that.” Erskine shook his head. “Why did you come back?”

“For you.” Erskine stopped breathing. Ghastly continued. “I knew Hopeless could manage without me and Skulduggery. But I couldn’t leave you. You had so little ties in the army, knew so few people, and you’d never lost anyone close before, not in the way you’d lost Skulduggery. And you were so young.”

“I had Deuce, and Hopeless,” Erskine said, defensive.

“Aye, I know.” Ghastly said. “I underestimated you. But Deuce never hesitated to send you into danger if he thought it necessary for the cause, and Hopeless was as young as you, younger. I wanted to be there, make sure you were all right.”

Erskine fell back onto his back. The grass brushed his cheeks and neck. It was as if his centuries of life had been stripped away, and suddenly he was that young, scared soldier, new to fighting. He had been a mortal minstrel before his eclectic career as spy and fighter for Meritorious et al. By the time Skulduggery had been murdered Ravel had been familiar with war, but not with losing close friends. Now, at the turn of another century, he was well familiar with the numbness that came with a loved one dying.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Ghastly shrugged. Down below, Larrikin and Saracen were making their way back to the mainland. Erskine watched, and felt nothing. He fancied something like distain was lodged in his breast, but truly, those two could be strangers for all that Erskine felt for them. Was there something rotten in him, Erskine wondered, or was it simply shock at everything that had happened this year and at everything Ghastly had said? He felt disconnected, as if the earth he was lying upon had cracked and was about to float off into the sea, towards Ireland. 

“You’re hiding something. You aren’t as dedicated to the cause anymore. I can see it, in how you act, in how you fight.”

Erskine wrenched himself up from the soft ground and rose to his knees, facing Ghastly. His heart thudded; the dullness gone.

“What are you talking about?”

Did he know about Mist’s letters and Erskine’s secret, after all? What could Erskine say, to disabuse him of his suspicions? Did he know about _Hopeless_? Erskine was getting slack. When he was younger he could talk himself into the homes and affections of Faceless worshippers, but now he couldn’t even keep his secrets from his friends.

“I don’t blame you,” Ghastly’s eyes were sad. “It’s absolutely understandable. You’re mourning. We all are. And if you need time off – for God’s sake, if you need to _leave_ – I understand.”

“I don’t need to leave.”

“Then what do you need, then, Erskine?” Ghastly’s patience had finally worn a little thin. “You haven’t talked to any of us properly since Hopeless died. We’re all worried. How can we help you, if you do not speak?”

“Why do you think you can help me at all?” Erskine asked.

Ghastly’s hands twitched, he put the knitting down onto his rucksack. He reached out a gentle hand for Erskine’s and Ravel jolted away.

“You were in love with Hopeless, weren’t you?”

Those words affected Erskine more than a slap ever could. He slumped, head in hands. Those familiar emotions rolled in his gut and chest and on the inside of his skull. They beat a rhythm within him. The landscape around him was unrecognisable through his blurred lashes. For a moment he was simply that broken feeling in his chest, and Erskine Ravel didn’t exist at all.

Across from him, Ghastly swore. A hand settled on his shoulder, and Erskine grasped it.

“I’m sorry,” Ghastly said, wretched. “I didn’t think …”

“Don’t,” Erskine said sharply, gripping the man’s wrist tighter. “Just don’t.”

“Alright,” Ghastly said, shifting closer. Ghastly’s side pressed against his, grounding him as he remembered how to breathe again. He stiffened as footsteps came up behind them.

“Erskine?” Larrikin’s voice broke on the second syllable. His voice was quieter than usual, mirth gone. “Is he alright?”

“We’re talking,” Ghastly said quietly.

“Let’s go down to the beach,” Saracen said to Larrikin, and the two men left them, pressing hands on Erskine’s shoulder before they left.

Erskine always wondered how much Saracen knew; was it his magic, that told him that Erskine could not stomach their presence now? In any case, by the time he had pulled himself together it was only Ghastly and him on the headland. Ravel dropped his head onto Ghastly’s shoulder, all feeling spent.

“I don’t think I was in love with them.” Ravel said, voice rough. “If I was, that’s not why I’m … I can’t seem to function without them. They promised to help me, and then they were dead, and I was there and I did _nothing_.”

“You did all you could,” Ghastly said.

“You weren’t there.” Erskine said wildly.

“But I know you,” Ghastly said, faith firm in his words. “I’ve seen you with them. You’d die for them. You’d die for all of us. It’s not your fault that they did so for you.”

“I should have …”

“Should have what?” Ghastly sighed, voice lower than usual. For a moment Erskine wondered if his friend was about to cry also. “You’re powerful, Erskine, but you’re just a man. This is war. Don’t carry the weight of their death, they wouldn’t want that. Hopeless loved you dearly. They wouldn’t blame you.”

Erskine forced himself to breathe. Time trickled by, until Ghastly spoke again, softer than before.

“What was Hopeless trying to help you with, before they died?”

Erskine’s eyes closed again. Behind his lids he could see Hopeless’ pale face. They had been so silent when Erskine had confessed, telling them about Mist and her movement and his new allegiance.

“Nothing,” Erskine said. “Well, nothing of importance now. It’s just … they were so good.”

“They were,” Ghastly agreed.

The sea breeze had returned, colder than before.

“Skulduggery and everyone are back,” Erskine observed.

“They are,” Ghastly said. “Do you want me to go down to them?”

Good, dependable Ghastly, so blind, so intuitive. Erskine’s face felt worn thin, else he would have smiled. He nodded instead, and so Ghastly stood with a rustle of bags, and departed. Erskine watched as he descended down the slope, careful and nimble.

Hopeless had been silent at first, when Erskine had told them, but then they had looked scared. Truly, utterly terrified, and Erskine had realised that they would never join the cause, and so could never be trusted with his secret.

Down on the beach the rest of the Dead Men were congregating. Larrikin was bouncing on his feet, concern over Erskine obviously forgotten. Skulduggery was taller and slimmer than the rest, and the resolve in the lines of his body told Erskine that they had been successful. They were one step closer to finding Serpine. Mevolent might now have been dead, but Serpine was alive and free. Erskine would do almost anything to achieve the capture and execution of that man. Over fifty years had passed since his imprisonment, but those green eyes still looked down on him in his dreams.

Hopeless had promised to keep Erskine’s secret, but Hopeless was ultimately a moral person. If they were opposed to Erskine’s plans, they would stop him, one way or another. Erskine stood up, looking down at his comrades, and followed the path Ghastly had taken. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and he brushed it away, impatient.

The decision had felt simple, at the time.

Erskine straightened his back. His soft leather boots hit the crusty sand, and the Dead Men opened their circle for him to enter the conversation. Dexter put a hand on his shoulder, gave him a sad smile. Erskine returned it.

“We’ve got him at last,” Larrikin said. “He’s still in Wales.”

“Where?” Erskine asked.

“Llangennith,” Shudder said, voice a satisfied rumble. “He’s hiding with the mortals. Doesn’t expect us to find him there.”

“Excellent,” Erskine said.

It had been a knife in the stomach, in the end, after a skirmish in Prussia. Hopeless had looked up at him, lips parted, shaking like they must have done that cold night with Ghastly after Skulduggery’s murder. He had considered poison, but Hopeless would have sensed that, with their powers.

It was Erskine’s fault, for trusting them. He couldn’t forgive himself for that.

“Shall we go?” Skulduggery said, already walking.

“Let’s get that evil bastard,” Erskine said, with a vicious vehemence, the first genuine words he had spoken all day.


End file.
